Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 083 - The Other World

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THE OTHER WORLD
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE MYSTERIOUS FUR
? Chapter II. THE QUARRELSOME MEN
? Chapter III. THE GANG-UP
? Chapter IV. THE DESPERATE MAN
? Chapter V. THE STRANGE FACTS
? Chapter VI. TERCIO’S TRAIL
? Chapter VII. RURAL MÊLÉE
? Chapter VIII. RADIO TRAIL
? Chapter IX. GUNS NORTH
? Chapter X. BLAST IN THE ARCTIC
? Chapter XI. THE BIG BIRDS
? Chapter XII. THE PREHISTORIC WORLD
? Chapter XIII. THE CAVE
? Chapter XIV. LANTA
? Chapter XV. THE FIGHT
? Chapter XVI. THE DISASTER
? Chapter XVII. THE FRIGHTENED PEOPLE
? Chapter XVIII. DEATH AND A RACE
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. THE MYSTERIOUS FUR
WHEN the plane landed on a farmer’s oat-stubble field in the Mississippi bottoms near St. Louis, the
time was around ten in the morning.
The farmer had turned his cattle on to the stubble field to graze, and among the animals was a rogue bull
which was a horned devil with strangers.
This bull charged the aviator.
The flier then killed the bull with a spear.
Naturally, the farmer who owned the bull was astounded. The farmer happened to be watching, and his
astonishment came not so much from the fact that the aviator killed the bull; if the flier had drawn a gun
and shot the animal, the farmer would not have been surprised. The spear was the astonishing item.
The spear was small—seven feet or so in length, not very heavy. When hurling the spear the flier used a
peculiar device, a stick about the length of his arm, equipped at one end with two thong loops for the
forefingers, so that it could be clasped very tightly, while the other end of the stick was forked to grip the
spear shaft. With this device, the spear could be thrown with great force, as a rock is hurled from the
split end of a stick. There was something primitive about it.
"Hey!" The farmer dashed into the oat field. "You all right?"
"I’m extremely sorry," the flier said.
"About the bull? Hell, that’s all right." The farmer wiped off perspiration. "Brother, we been afraid that ox
was gonna gore somebody."
The flier said, "I shall pay you for the animal, of course."
The farmer’s eyes began to pop with astonishment as he eyed the aviator. "I’ll be jiggered!" he said.
Because he had been a little astonished over the business of the bull, the farmer had failed to particularly
notice the flier’s clothing.
"Bless my boots!" the farmer muttered.
The flier’s garments—skin tight trousers, very loose coat-blouse—seemed to be made of buckskin, or
animal hide of similar nature. Further, his feet were shod in a covering that the farmer at first thought was
steel, but later concluded must be some metal more nearly like aluminum. This metal foot gear was solid,
after the fashion of Dutch wooden shoes.
"I shall," repeated the flier, "pay you for the animal."
The farmer was not too surprised over the pilot’s appearance to overlook a dollar. "Well now," he said,
"he was a pretty good bull. Thoroughbred. I can show you the papers on him."
"Unfortunately, you will have to wait a few days for the money."
"Eh?"
"I will leave my plane here," the pilot said, "and be gone two or three days. Then I shall return and pay
you."
The farmer had noticed by this time that the man was having some difficulty with his speech, as if he had
not spoken English for a long time, or had recently learned it.
Since an airplane was obviously more valuable than a bull, hence good security, the farmer said: "Sure.
That’s all right."
The flier took a large bundle from the plane—a package about three feet square, wrapped in the same
type of skin from which his clothing was made, and equipped with pack-straps for carrying.
"As I said," the aviator remarked, "I shall return later."
He walked across the oat stubble and disappeared into a woods.
THE prominence of St. Louis as a fur-buying center, while possibly not fully known to the public, is an
appreciated fact by the fur industry, a multitude of dealers in raw skins converging on the city during the
season to dicker for pelts. Mink, raccoon and skunk from the Middle West. Muskrat from Louisiana.
Fox from the Hudson Bay. Wolf from the Rockies. Chinchilla from South America.
The flier got a laugh when he walked into the market rooms. A rather contemptuous glance or two, as
well. Some of them figured, from his skin clothing, that he was a nut.
"Dan’l Boone come to town," someone said, and snickered.
The flier’s unusual metal shoes made a loud noise on the tiled floor as he crossed to an exhibition table,
upon which he lowered his bundle. Before he opened his bundle, he made a speech. Not a long one.
"Gentlemen," he said, "you can buy these furs for five thousand a skin."
Someone laughed at that, but there was no mirth after the man opened his bundle and spread out the
contents, slowly and proudly, handling them as though each was a jewel as fragile as a cobweb.
"Holy cats!" someone said.
They weren’t cat hides, but something else, something incredible. A fur so luxurious, with such subtle
coloring and quality, that the buyers were stunned. A man stepped forward, held one of the skins up and
stroked it with his hand, and it was indeed as if a fabulous jewel were being shown. Fur men came to the
spot, magnetized by such a fur as they hadn’t dreamed existed.
A fur man said: "Who owns that dyeing process? My firm will pay plenty for it."
The man who was holding up the pelt studied the fur closely.
"Not dyed," he said.
"You’re crazy. There’s no animal with fur like that."
They gathered around the table. They were not passing the skins about, but touching them reverently.
"How much did you say?" a man asked the flier.
"Five thousand a skin."
"Dollars?"
"Yes."
The other laughed. "Be yourself, guy. Chinchilla is the most expensive fur in the world, and it doesn’t
bring that."
The aviator did not seem impressed. "And what makes Chinchilla cost?"
"Scarcity. The animals are getting rare—"
"Not as rare as these." The flier held up his hand and silence fell; they listened to him speaking in his
strangely difficult fashion. "You see here," he said, "a collection of skins which is complete. And by
complete, I mean that in this pile here are all the skins of this animal that you will find in the world, and
there will be no more such skins. Never. I have twenty-seven skins here, and there will never be any
more."
"You mean," put in a new voice, "that no more of that particular fur you’ve got there will ever come on
the market?"
"Exactly," said the flier.
"Why not?"
The flier seemed, judging from his hesitation, reluctant about answering that question.
"Because," he said finally, "there are no more of the animals. I killed and skinned them all. Their pelts are
here."
"Just who are you, anyhow?"
"My name," the flier said, "is Tercio."
"Tercio?"
"Decimo Tercio, yes."
"And you’re from—?"
"That," advised Decimo Tercio, "is not your business."
THE man who had taken up the questioning of Decimo Tercio stepped back and showed his teeth
unpleasantly. He was a dealer specializing in sealskins, and he somewhat resembled one of the animals
himself, particularly about the countenance. His face was equipped with a pair of large dark pop eyes.
Someone whispered to a companion: "It didn’t take that Tercio, whoever he is, very long to get Two
Wink’s number."
"Is Two Wink a crook?"
"He hasn’t been caught at it."
There were no fireworks. Two Wink Danton merely scowled, growled, "I just asked you a civil
question," and walked away. He went directly to his office, wasting no time.
Gerald Evan Two Wink Danton was not particularly liked on the fur exchange, nor was there anything
definite to account for this. The man had a rather long nose as far as other people’s business was
concerned, his principal interest apparently being directed toward becoming an encyclopedia of gossip.
However, he was like a blotter where gossip was concerned—he absorbed, but did not give forth.
Which wasn’t so bad.
Danton’s nickname of Two Wink came from his habitual bidding gesture. During fur auctions, when large
numbers of bidders are gathered before the auctioneer, bidding is usually done by giving slight
signals—the lifting of a finger, the tilting of a cigarette, a tug at an ear with the fingers. Danton invariably
winked twice, and if there was any secretive intent about the gesture, it was futile, the man’s pop eyes
making a double wink quite noticeable. He might as well have jumped up and waved both arms.
Two Wink dived into his office and sent an excited bark at his stenographer.
"Where’s them two fur samples?" he rapped.
"What samples?" the girl asked nervously.
"The two that were left with me about three years ago. The men wanted to be notified if any similar fur
appeared on the market. Offered me five hundred dollars reward if I found a similar fur on the market
and notified them."
"Oh, that." The girl went into an adjacent room and soon came back with two envelopes.
Each envelope bore a name and address, and each contained a small piece of fur. One of these bits of fur
was worn somewhat more than the other, but there was no doubt but that they were of identical type.
Two Wink carried the two fragments of fur back to the display room and, without doing anything that
drew attention to himself, carefully compared the two bits with the pelts which Decimo Tercio was
attempting to sell for five thousand dollars each.
It had now become apparent that Decimo Tercio stood a very good chance of getting five thousand
dollars apiece for the skins. Someone had already offered twenty-five hundred, providing examination
showed that the skins were genuine and not a clever piece of manufacturing.
Two Wink listened to the bidding, and he was very thoughtful when he went back to his office. Several
things were on his mind. This Decimo Tercio was a strange fellow, and his clothing was even more
unusual. The buckskin pants, as snug as an acrobat’s tights. More particularly, the metal shoes that
served him as footgear.
"You know," muttered Two Wink, "I think there’s something queer about this."
"What did you say?" asked the stenographer.
"Never mind."
Two Wink went into his private sanctum and had a silent argument with himself. On one side of the
argument was a conviction, rather vague now but growing stronger, that there might be a great deal of
money to be made if a properly interested fellow who played his cards right, such as Two Wink
considered himself capable of doing, could get hold of breeding pairs of the animals which had produced
that amazing new fur. On the other side of the argument stood one thousand perfectly good dollars, five
hundred each from two men who had offered the sums as a reward to be notified if such a fur as this
appeared on the market.
The philosophy of a bird in the hand beating two in the bush eventually won out in Two Wink’s mind, so
he telegraphed the two men who had offered the rewards.
One telegram recipient was named Arnold Columbus.
The other was named Wilmer Fancife.
Both of them were in New York City, although at different addresses.
Chapter II. THE QUARRELSOME MEN
THE fight at the airport that evening was a honey. The hostess saw it start. Two of her passengers—they
had not left their seats during the nonstop flight from New York, had boarded the plane separately in
Newark, hence obviously neither had known the other was aboard—arose to leave their seats after the
big sky cruiser landed in St. Louis. The instant they saw each other, fireworks started.
One man was young, not far beyond late college age; he had the body of a young blacksmith, hair as
yellow as a new oat shock, a rather grim expression.
The other fellow was a tough fat man. His mouth looked as if it had been made carelessly with a hatchet.
Nature had not given him much of a nose, and this donation had been hammered upon until it had
somewhat the appearance of a large wart. He was cross-eyed. His skin gave the impression of having
been appropriated from a rhinoceros.
The fat man saw the young one first. He was carrying a suitcase, which he immediately lifted and crashed
down on the young man’s head. The case split and clothing erupted.
The young man was jarred down on his knees, but he got up and wheeled around to face his assailant.
"Fancife!" he yelled.
He lunged in, hooked a fist to the fat man’s ribs. He might as well have slugged a draft horse. The fat man
was tough.
The young man was no lily. He made a roaring noise, waded in. He slugged and got slugged. The two
men fell on the plane floor amid the litter of Fancife’s suitcase.
Seizing a necktie, the young man wrapped it around Fancife’s neck like a garrote cord, and tied a hard
knot in it. Fancife got an extra shoe that had been in the case, pounded the young man between the eyes,
loosened him.
The thing became serious. Fancife snatched up a razor, tried to cut the other’s throat. He failed. The foe
got a belt, began whipping the other across the eyes, finally jerked the razor out of his hand.
Fancife began turning purple, due to the knotted tie about his neck.
The co-pilot—the hostess had been screaming ineffectually for them to stop it—came rushing back and
tried to part the men. He made progress for a moment, then got two teeth kicked down his throat. He
doubled over, coughed up the teeth, and as mad as either combatant, he rushed forward to hunt a
wrench.
The fat man, Fancife, had started the fight with confidence. By now, he was changing his mind. The
younger man was fighting with a fury that was maniacal.
Fancife snatched up a bottle of rubbing alcohol and struck the younger man on the forehead with it. The
bottle broke, not harming the victim greatly. But the alcohol ran down into the young man’s eyes, making
stinging blindness.
Fancife took advantage of his foe’s blindness to get out of the plane and run.
TEARING off the throttling necktie as he raced past the airport waiting room, Fancife vaulted a low
steel-wire fence, reached a taxicab. He did not waste time. He reached into the cab, clutched the
astonished driver by the coat, slugged him on the jaw and made him senseless, then dumped him on the
ground. The cab leaped away, tires throwing gravel, Fancife at the wheel.
En route into town, Fancife proved that the taxicab could do eighty. Later, he abandoned the cab,
straightened his ruffled clothing, and caught another hack in a conventional fashion. He changed cabs
twice thereafter.
Between one of the cab changes, Fancife looked up the residence address of Gerald Evan Two Wink
Danton.
Two Wink Danton, being owner of a vinegary disposition and a completely selfish nature, had always
lived alone. At present he occupied a rat trap of an apartment—he was also as stingy as Scrooge—in a
part of town that was down at the heels. The living room was lighted inadequately by a twenty-watt bulb
dangling on the end of a cord from the center of the ceiling, and by this bad light, he surveyed his visitor.
He did not immediately recognize the other.
"Who . . . what—?" Then he understood. "Oh, it’s Mr. Wilmer Fancife."
"Hello, Two Wink," Fancife said.
"You got my telegram, I guess. But I wasn’t expecting you so soon."
Fancife began coughing and put his hand to his chest as if in pain—when he took the hand away, there
was a large blue gun in it.
"You weren’t expecting this either, probably." Fancife waggled the gun. "I hope you understand what
happens when these things go off at a man."
"What’s the idea?"
"We’ve got to get away from here in a hurry. It just happens there isn’t time for explanations, hence the
gun."
Two Wink was not without judgment, so he walked down to the street meekly, and even said: "I have
my car handy, if you would prefer we take that."
"Let’s."
Two Wink drove out toward Forest Park, the park being one of his preferred haunts because it was free.
Fancife rode silently, holding the gun against his ample keg of a stomach, pointed at Two Wink.
"I fail to understand this at all," Two Wink said finally.
"My hurry to take you with me, you mean?" Fancife made a noise that did not contain enough humor to
be a laugh. "That was because somebody besides me could read the telephone book."
"I still don’t get it."
"You don’t?"
"Slightly less than three years ago," Two Wink said thoughtfully, "you came to me and gave me a small
piece of fur, a wonderful fur of a type that was totally unknown to me. You offered a five-hundred-dollar
reward to be notified if pelts of such a fur appeared on the St. Louis market. Today, such pelts did
appear. I wired you, and you rush here by plane. You must have come by plane."
Fancife said: "Would it puzzle you more to know that I had left samples of that fur at every major fur
center in the world, together with the same reward offer?"
"It strikes me as strange."
"It’ll have to keep on striking you as strange, then."
"What do you mean?"
Fancife apparently decided he no longer needed his gun, and he put it back in the underarm holster from
which he had taken it.
"All you’ve got to do with this is produce information," Fancife explained. "I want to know who brought
the furs today, and where I can find the person."
"Wasn’t there something said about five hundred?"
Fancife reached into his hip pocket for a billfold and began counting out twenty-dollar bills.
"You’ll get it," he said.
Two Wink casually reached into his coat and a moment later Fancife was looking into the threatening
twin maws of a large-caliber derringer.
"I’m afraid I’ll need more than five hundred," Two Wink said.
THE two men examined each other during tense moments while Two Wink brought the car to a stop
near a street light in a deserted section of the park. Each one saw that the other was not afraid, and a
mutual respect sprang up between them.
"I didn’t figure you would have a gun," Fancife said disgustedly.
"I did have, you see."
The strained silence continued. There was no noise other than the muttering of the engine and the ticking
of a valve tappet. Breeze moved the park trees, and leaves cast squirming clusters of shadow.
"Well?" Fancife said questioningly.
"I can see only one answer to this," Two Wink said thoughtfully. "Someone has bred a new type of
fur-bearing animal, and skins of that animal were offered on the market today. That fur, if a man had had
a monopoly, would be worth millions. So I want in. I’m no hog."
"What do you mean—no hog?"
"I want fifty per cent. Half."
Fancife chewed his lower lip. He was thinking. "And if there was more to it than just a new fur-bearing
animal?"
"Half. Still half."
Fancife continued thoughtful, until finally he drew in a deep breath.
"I like your style." He scowled at Two Wink. "I don’t think I would care much for you personally, but
you don’t handle yourself bad. I could use you."
Two Wink said frankly: "I was just thinking the same thing. We might do each other some good."
There was a silence. Then, without further speech, with no other manifestation, they shook hands to seal
the bargain. Another silence followed, for they were both somewhat surprised, suddenly realizing that
they understood each other fully, that their minds worked in exactly the same fashion, so that each
seemed to know exactly what the other thought and intended to do. It was almost uncanny.
"We should make a team," Fancife said.
Two Wink put away his derringer, admitted, "Yes, we should."
"Our first move," Fancife announced, "is to get hold of the man who brought those furs to St. Louis. And
the next move," added Fancife, "will be to get rid of a fellow named Columbus."
Chapter III. THE GANG-UP
THE yellow-haired young man who was built like a blacksmith was having his troubles.
The airplane stewardess said: "I saw the fight begin, and he didn’t start it. The other man hit him first."
The policeman asked, "Who kicked your teeth out?"
"The other one," admitted the co-pilot. "Not this fellow, but the one who got away."
The yellow-haired young man made an impatient gesture with his large, strong-fingered hands, then gave
a convincing speech.
"So why not turn me loose?" he argued. "This fellow attacked me and I simply defended myself, so the
fracas was not my fault. I didn’t even know the man, therefore he must have been a nut of some kind.
You better be devoting your time to finding him. Why, he’s probably a crazy man running around loose, a
menace to humanity."
The policeman said, "You didn’t even know him?"
"My name," said the young man who had furnished half the fight, "is Arnold Columbus, but naturally I get
called Chris Columbus. I’m from New York. I’m a fur specialist, and I frequently travel to remote parts
of the world. You’re liable to run into me inside the Arctic Circle hunting unusual sealskins, or you might
find me in the Andes Mountains dickering for a catch of special chinchilla. I was simply coming to St.
Louis on business, and this fellow attacked me."
"According to the plane company records, the other man’s name was Wilmer Fancife," the policeman
explained. "You say you never knew a Wilmer Fancife before?"
Chris Columbus lied without batting an eye.
"Never heard of the cuss," he said.
The policeman thought it all over and came to a conclusion. "Thank you very much. Will you kindly keep
in touch with us, in case something should develop?"
Chris Columbus grinned pleasantly and said, "I take it that I can leave now?"
"Yes. Where do you intend to stay?"
"The Ritz Hotel."
"Thank you."
Chris left the airport in a taxicab and did not go near the Ritz Hotel, visiting instead a tobacco shop which
was open at this late hour. He examined the telephone directory for Gerald Evan Two Wink Danton’s
address. Having found the address, he rode to within two blocks of the spot in a taxicab, then alighted.
Chris told the taxi driver Two Wink Danton’s address. He also gave the driver a five-dollar banknote.
"I want you to do me a favor," Chris explained. "A friend of mine lives there, and he is very sociable
indeed and he also likes his liquid refreshment, so I suspect he may be somewhat pixilated. If he is oiled,
I doubtless will have trouble getting away from him without hurting his feelings, and there is where you
come in. If I do not return in half an hour, say, you come to the door and knock and explain to whoever
answers that there is a policeman downstairs and he is going to come up and get me if I don’t come
down. I will tell my friend that I was pinched for speeding, and the cop is taking me to the bastille, but
merely let me stop off to see my friend as a great favor."
Chris Columbus was sometimes rather proud of his ability as a liar.
"It sounds kind of complicated," said the taxi driver.
"But you’ll do it? There’s some more bucks in it for you."
"Oh, sure. In half an hour."
CHRIS COLUMBUS listened intently outside Two Wink Danton’s door and heard a radio playing
softly, and no other sound, so he knocked. The door soon opened.
"Hello, Mr. Two Wink Danton," said Chris. "You alone?"
"Why, yes, by myself." Two Wink stood back hospitably. "Come on in. I didn’t expect you to arrive so
soon. I only sent my telegram slightly after noon today."
"It doesn’t take much over six hours to come from New York to St. Louis by plane," Chris said.
He walked in unsuspectingly, not realizing his mistake until Two Wink slammed the door and disclosed
that Fancife had been standing behind the panel with a cocked gun ready in his right hand, and his left
hand gripping a pillow with which to muffle noise of the gun, should it be necessary.
The glare Chris gave Fancife held such desperate fury and hate that the craggy fat man clapped the pillow
over the muzzle of the gun, ready to fire.
"No!" Two Wink barked wildly. "Somebody’ll hear the shot, sure!"
Fancife snarled, "Get your hands up!"
Chris Columbus lifted his arms. His fists were clenched, his face drained of color, his mouth hate-twisted.
He hated Fancife, it was obvious, more than anything else in the world.
Fancife added, "You tie him, Two Wink."
Two Wink secured a cotton clothesline—he was such a skinflint, and cared so little for his personal
appearance that he did his own laundry in the apartment—and bound the prisoner, showing an extensive
knowledge of knots.
"Now a gag," Fancife suggested.
Two Wink rammed a dishrag into Chris Columbus’ mouth, and over this tied a bath towel.
Then suddenly Two Wink looked at Fancife, exclaimed, "I just thought of something. That damned
dog—and I’ve got some of the stuff left."
"What has a dog got to do with it?"
"One of the neighbors had a dog, and the blasted thing always barked at me and kept me awake at night
with howling. Once it bit me. So I got some chloroform, and one night I caught the dog."
"And you have some of the chloroform left?"
"Yes."
"Get it."
摘要：

THEOTHERWORLDADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THEMYSTERIOUSFUR?ChapterII.THEQUARRELSOMEMEN?ChapterIII.THEGANG-UP?ChapterIV.THEDESPERATEMAN?ChapterV.THESTRANGEFACTS?ChapterVI.TERCIO’STRAIL?ChapterVII.RURALMÊLÉE?ChapterVIII.RADI...

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